


Two Forms of Haptic Communication

by etave



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Arabella on top, F/M, Grooming, Hurt/Comfort, js&mn kink meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 05:35:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4594776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etave/pseuds/etave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A partial fill for the prompt on the JS&MN kink meme requesting “gentle Strange/Childermass”.  I added a dash of Arabella/Jonathan, because I thought Strange might be in that sort of mood, given the circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Forms of Haptic Communication

Childermass opened his eyes. He was lying on his back in a clean, comfortable bed, dressed in a nightshirt, which was remarkable only because he usually slept naked. Wary of aggravating the terrible throbbing in his temples, he looked around himself as well as he was able without moving his head too much, and saw that he was in a well-furnished bed chamber, but not one he recognised. The vase of wildflowers on the bureau confirmed it: this was not Mister Norrell’s house in Hanover Square. 

The room was very quiet, apart from the crackling of a fire in the grate, and the slow tick of a clock, somewhere off to his right. The curtains were open, but dusk was falling, and much of the room lay in shadow. He judged the hour to be late, maybe five o'clock. He strained his ears, and could make out the sound of conversation, somewhere deep inside the house: a low murmur with no quarrelsome or otherwise disquieting overtones. 

He swallowed dryly. He was thirsty, and wished for some water, but there was none handy, and no-one to ask. His entire left arm ached, as did his shoulder, and they felt constricted, as if bandaged. He thought about sitting up, or at least moving enough to examine his injuries, but he could not summon the energy. He felt strangely disconnected from his body.

He closed his eyes again. He slept.

 

The next time Childermass awoke, the curtains had been drawn, and someone was moving around the room lighting candles. He watched from beneath lowered lashes as a woman crossed his line of sight at the foot of the bed, carrying a candlestick. She was slight, dark-haired, wearing a white apron over a lilac dress. It was Mrs Strange. Relieved, he said hoarsely, “Madam,” but his voice was a papery whisper, and he was too exhausted to repeat himself more loudly. 

She had heard him, however; she set the candlestick down, and came quickly to him. "Mister Childermass? Are you awake?" 

He blinked sleepily at her, swallowed drily.

“I see that you are. Welcome back. No, do not try to sit up.” Her manner was gentle, concerned, which surprised him; he knew she had no love for his master.

"Good evening, Mrs Strange," he croaked. 

"How are you feeling?” 

"Like I've been rolled down a hill in a barrel, madam. What happened? How did I get here?"

"There was an explosion on the river: gunpowder on its way to the docks at Chatham, they say. It brought down the north side of the Strand Bridge. You were caught in the blast. There were dozens of casualties. Do you remember anything?"

Vague memories returned in a jumble of thunderous sounds, screams, and the cold horror of water closing over his head. He looked away from her sympathetic gaze. “Aye, some.”

"Jonathan went to try to stabilise the bridge,” she continued, pouring water into a pewter mug for him. “He saw you lying on a cart with the other injured, waiting to be taken on to the hospital, so he brought you back with him. Please, drink some water.” 

"Thank you." He tried to sit up, but he felt as though he had a millstone on his chest, pinning him to the bed. "What is wrong with me?"

"Let me help." She slipped her hand under his head, and raised him a little, holding the mug to his lips. He drained it quickly; it was gloriously cold and wet. "A physician attended to your injuries earlier; he gave you rather a lot of laudanum. You will feel somewhat weak and confused until it wears off."

"My injuries?" He tried and failed to keep the fear out of his voice.

"Nothing serious," she reassured him. "You have a great deal of bruising, some scrapes and cuts. You will be a little sore for a week or so, but he could not find any breaks or dislocations."

"I am glad," he said, his throat tight. He licked his lip. "My master, does he know I'm here?"

"Yes. Jonathan went to Mister Norrell himself, to tell him what had happened."

"How did he take it?"

"He persuaded Mister Norrell to let you rest here tonight," she replied, in a tone that confirmed his suspicion that his master had been appalled by the news, and also that she took a quiet delight in Norrell’s discomfort. "He will come to collect you in the morning. Are you in pain, Mister Childermass?"

"Not at all, madam. I feel very little of anything, which in itself is very pleasant." 

She smiled. "You should rest. I will send someone to watch over you while you sleep, in case you should need anything in the night." As she spoke, she bent and tucked the sheets around him. 

"Thank you."

“Goodnight, then.”

She left in a rustle of muslin. He watched her go, then closed his eyes. She was a pretty woman, and a sensible one too: more sensible than her husband, though at least he’d had the nous to marry her. 

As he was reflecting on this, sleep overtook him again, and he started to doze.

 

Childermass dreamed of floating on his back on the Thames, eyes closed, arms outstretched, peacefully floating upstream away from the city, past the palace at Hampton Court, past the little villages and open fields, west to the rolling hills of Oxfordshire. The sun was warm and bright on his face, and he felt weightless, serene. A fragrant breeze caressed his face.

As he drifted under the low-hanging branches of a willow, dappled sunlight flickered over his closed eyes. The water was cooler here. An eddy in the current nudged him towards the bank, and he felt his head bump against a soft tussock of sweet-smelling grass, making him smile. It felt like an affectionate pat. 

The eddy grew stronger, and swirled, pushed him against the bank more firmly. He attempted to paddle back into the middle of the river, but the current drove him hard against the bank, trapping him there amongst the rushes and tree roots, and the water started to churn around him, tossing him up and down violently. 

This was no longer pleasant. He tried to turn onto his front and swim away, but his arms and legs had become tangled in the weeds. They dragged at him, drew him down into the depths. The murky water rushed past his ears, deafening. He could not breathe. Everything grew dark. He continued to sink, faster and faster. He was underwater, and he could not breathe. He was going to drown. 

Childermass cried out in panic, and the sound of his own voice must have woken him, for he opened his eyes and found himself once more lying in bed in Jonathan Strange’s house, the sheets twisted around himself, panting and shaking with terror, every muscle in his body tense.

Strange was leaning over him, shaking his uninjured shoulder roughly, an expression of alarm on his face. "Wake up, Childermass. Are you awake?"

"Why do people keep asking me that?" he groused. “Yes, I’m awake; leave off shaking me if you please, sir.”

Strange pressed a cool hand to his forehead, frowning. "You have a fever. That might explain it."

“Explain what? What time is it?”

“Nine o’clock in the evening.” Strange helped him into a sitting position, piling some pillows behind his back to support him. “Sit up, there’s a good fellow.” A maid hovered behind him, her face pale, frightened. She looked vaguely familiar: Mary, that was her name. Davey was walking out with her. He smiled at her but she avoided his eyes.

Strange asked the maid to fetch a basin of cold water, soap, and some cloths. “Mary, there is nothing to be afraid of, I promise. I will see to Mister Childermass. Tell your mistress that I will join her later.” She bobbed a curtsey, unhappily, and left. 

“What’s wrong with her?” 

“You gave her rather a fright, that is all. Are you going to vomit again?"

Childermass, groaning, closed his eyes. “Did I vomit?”

“Copiously,” Strange replied, with a small grin. “Thankfully, it seemed to be mostly river water.” He fetched a small card table, which he placed beside the bed, and then began rolling up his shirtsleeves. 

Mary returned, and set the bowl and cloths on the card table, darting nervous glances at Childermass as she did so. “Thank you. Would you see to that mess by the bed, please?”

“Yes sir.” 

Strange wet a cloth, and began to wash Childermass’ face, working carefully around a tender bruise on his brow. His touch was deft, and the wet cloth was refreshingly cold, but he wondered why Strange was bathing him, rather than a servant. If Strange intended to interrogate him about Mister Norrell while he was under the influence of the laudanum, he would be disappointed: he would get nothing from him.

He was glad when Mary returned with a bucket and more cloths; he doubted Strange would question him in her presence. As Strange soaped his neck and under his arms, he started to rehearse in his mind some suitably terse responses to the inevitable questions, but to his surprise, he did not ask him anything, apart from whether it hurt him to raise his arm (it did not), and if he was hungry (he was not).

Childermass watched Strange’s long, clever fingers rinse and twist the cloth, wringing it out. "You have very beautiful hands, Mister Strange," he murmured, before he had even realised he wanted to speak. What the hell was that? he chided himself. Keep your bloody mouth shut unless you have something intelligent to say. “I’m sorry, sir, I meant no disrespect.”

Amused, Strange glanced down at him, quirked a brow. “Thank you: they are at least clean. Does Mister Norrell ration your soap allowance? Yours are filthy.” His manner was quietly teasing. He rinsed the cloth again, before wiping the sweat from Childermass’ throat and chest, as far as the neckline of the nightshirt. It was so deliciously cooling that he had to bite his lip to stop himself from moaning aloud.

The bucket beside the bed rattled as Mary dropped her cloth into it. She stood, smoothing her skirt, and picked up the bucket. “I’ve finished, sir,” she said, risking a wary glance at Childermass.

“I am sorry about that, Mary,” he offered, meaning it.

“It couldn’t be helped, Master Childermass,” she replied, colouring. “Will there be anything else, Mister Strange?”

“Would you fetch my toilet case from my dressing room, please, Mary? Then you can turn in.”

When she returned with it, Strange thanked her again, and dismissed her. He opened the case, and laid out a few tools on the small table, then sat on the edge of the bed facing Childermass, and took his left hand. Childermass shifted uncomfortably as Strange examined his fingertips.

“Is this hurting your arm?” asked Strange, glancing up at him.

“No. What are you doing?”

“Something you ought to do more often,” he murmured absently, wetting a small nailbrush in the washbowl, and then using it to apply a froth of soap vigorously to Childermass’ fingertips and knuckles. It tickled a little, but the whole situation was so unusual, that he did not protest.

Having scrubbed his hand clean, Strange carefully trimmed Childermass’ fingernails with a tiny pair of silver scissors, and finally, used a small bone pin to clean around and beneath his nails, working with the utmost delicacy, holding each finger firmly but gently, his head bent low over his task. 

“Other hand, please.”

He offered it up to Strange’s ministrations. The man’s proximity was increasingly disconcerting, and as Strange took his hand, Childermass suddenly felt something basic coil and flex in the pit of his stomach. He closed his eyes, jaw tight; it was pulling at him, demanding his attention: a tension he could not quite identify. He tried to quell it, but the laudanum made it very difficult for him to concentrate. 

Warily, Childermass opened himself up to it instead, and with a shock of recognition, realised that what he was sensing was Strange’s magic. He could smell it, like summer rain on a dry stone wall, could feel it like a cool breeze playing over every inch of his skin. It made him want to grab the man’s hand, press his face against his palm and lick it. He felt his face flush with embarrassment as he wondered if Strange could read his mind.

Strange finished what he was doing, and put away his instruments. He had not spoken again, and seemed to be almost as distracted as Childermass himself, darting an oddly wary look at him as he folded the washcloth and laid it over the bowl. Once more, Childermass had the sense that the magician was waiting for him to say or do something. 

“Thank you, sir,” he said, before Strange could start in with his questions. “I s’pose that was a task I should have taken care of some time ago.”

“I expect your duties for Mister Norrell do not leave you much time for vanity,” he observed, smiling. “Well, I shall leave you to rest now, but I will ask Jeremy to sit with you tonight, in case anything else happens.” 

“That will not be necessary, sir; I feel much better.”

"Perhaps, but if you are going to start levitating again, I want to see it for myself. Poor Mary was so shocked, that by the time she had gathered her wits and called for help, you were on the descent, so I didn’t see all of it." 

"If I am going to do what?" Childermass asked sharply. 

“Levitating. You were not aware of it?” 

“Truly, I was not. What happened?”

“Well, it seems you were talking in your sleep – something about a rice pudding – and you started to grow distressed, so Mary said she tried to wake you up. Apparently, as she was doing so, you went as stiff as a board and floated up off the bed - a good three feet in the air! I’ll wager it was only the weight of the blankets that stopped you from rising to the ceiling. Did you not feel it? You appeared to be awake towards the end.”

"I only dreamt of drowning. This took place just now?”

“Yes, and then just as I arrived, you dropped back onto the bed, and woke up, thrashing around. It was most impressive. Has it ever happened before?” 

“Not to my knowledge.”

“How peculiar,” said Strange, giving him a measuring look. “Mister Childermass, forgive me for asking, but there is something I need to ask you. It may sound like a ridiculous question, but are—“

He knows, thought Childermass. Damn him, he knows. “What did Mister Norrell say when you went to see him?” he interrupted, smoothly.

“He asked why you had not gone straight back to Hanover Square. I explained that you had been unconscious, and I had brought you here because it was closer. I had the distinct impression he believed you had got yourself blown up on purpose.” 

“Like as not. He’s not the most rational man when upset, as you yourself know.” He yawned, a little theatrically. “Thank you for your kindness, Mister Strange, but I am very tired.”

Strange stood. “Of course.” He gathered up the toilet case and bowl. “I’ll send Jeremy in, in any case. Sleep well, Childermass.”

“G’night, sir.”

 

At nine sharp the following morning, Norrell arrived. Refusing Strange’s offer of breakfast, he waited outside in the carriage while Jeremy helped Childermass to dress, taking care not to jolt his bandaged left arm. 

Childermass’ clothes had been cleaned and pressed, and his boots polished, but his hat and greatcoat had been lost in the river. As Jeremy put his bandaged arm into a sling, Strange entered, carrying a long, dark greatcoat, much like Childermass’ own. 

“I hope this will suffice,” he said, holding it up against him. “It’s devilish cold out there: we do not want you to catch a chill.”

“Thank you, Mister Strange. I will return it when I have leisure.”

“No need; I have several almost identical. Please, keep it.”

“As you wish.” He did not need the man’s charity, and Strange knew that, so he was not ashamed to accept the coat. It looked as if it would be a good fit; in any case, it was made of better cloth than his old one. The sling prevented him from putting it on properly, so it was draped over his shoulders. 

“You look well in it,” said Strange. “Thank you, Jeremy; you may tell Mister Norrell that we will be down in a moment.”

Childermass slipped his hand into the pocket of the coat automatically, and as he did so, realised what was missing. “My cards,” he muttered. “Damn.”

“Your reading cards?”

“Yes. They must have been lost during... during what happened.”

“I’m sorry for it,” Strange said, staring intently at him. “I know they are very important to you.” 

“It’s no matter. I will make another set. Thank you for taking me in, sir.” He extended his hand to him, as an equal, and Strange took it without demur.

“A pleasure.” As they shook hands, the air seemed to crackle around them, and a deeply poignant sensation flooded Childermass’ senses, so powerful that he had to bite his lip to stop himself from gasping. He was suddenly awash with Strange’s magic again, and from the way the other man was looking at him, Strange was experiencing something similar.

“Childermass,” he stammered, looking at their joined hands with a mixture of fascination and astonishment, “There is… there is something I must ask you-“ 

No. This was too much, this was the wrong time, the wrong way, the wrong person. Childermass mastered himself, and almost snatched his hand back, although Strange was reluctant to relinquish his grip, and he had to tug his fingers away from him. “I had better not keep Mister Norrell waiting. Please thank Mrs Strange on my behalf,” he managed. 

He strode to the door, only managing not to bolt from the room with the greatest effort. 

 

Having seen Norrell and Childermass off, Jonathan hurried to find Arabella.

“John Childermass is a magician,” he announced, triumphantly, entering the parlour to find Arabella seated at the table, with the household accounts spread out all around. “I’m absolutely certain of it.”

“Because of the levitation?”

“Yes, no – well, partially, I suppose. When I was with him last night, I could feel it, Bell. He was radiating magic. He was saturated with it. And when I shook his hand just now: my god, it was the most peculiar thing I have ever experienced!” 

“What happened? What was it like?” She had stopped writing, intrigued. 

“The very moment his hand touched mine, the most intense sensation rushed through me. I suppose the best way to describe it would be to say it was like suddenly being doused in warm water, and then blasted by a cool breeze. My skin prickled all over. There was a smell too – a very distinct fragrance, like soot and spices. I am sorry, this probably does not make much sense.” He frowned. “But when he realised I could feel it, he pulled his hand away, pretty sharpish: it disturbed him: he had been found out, you see. I almost said something to him, but I did not know how to broach the subject.” He was pacing now, trembling with nervous energy. 

“Are you sure it wasn’t some trace of Mister Norrell’s magic? He has worked for him for a great many years.” 

“I thought that at first, but no, it was as much John Childermass as the sound of his voice. Norrell must know, he cannot have remained ignorant of it for so long, but he has never mentioned it. I wonder why Norrell does not teach him.”

“I think we both know the answer to that. No doubt he thinks Mister Childermass is not well-bred enough to be a magician.”

Jonathan sat heavily on the sopha, and loosened his neck-cloth, feeling a little hot. “Regardless of Norrell’s opinion of him, there is power in him, my love, and he could feel the magic in me too.”

“Have you ever experienced anything similar with Mister Norrell?” 

“Not exactly. There is definitely an aura around him – I feel it when he enters the room – but it is hard to describe: a sort of pregnant silence, rather like the silence that follows the moment a musician stops playing. Do you understand what I mean?”

“I think so. And what happens when you touch him?” 

“I have never touched Norrell; I have not even shaken his hand. He seems to dislike physical contact intensely; if what happened between Childermass and I is normal for magicians, I can understand why. It is quite disconcertingly intimate. No doubt at some point in the future, Norrell and I will perform some of the more powerful spells that require us to join hands. When that happens, I will have to make sure I am on my guard! But this thing with Childermass… it was a most bizarre sensation.”

“You do seem rather invigorated,” she agreed, and regarded him for a moment, then closed her accounting book, and stood, giving her stiff shoulders a little shake, then gave him a significant look. “Make yourself comfortable,” she instructed, going to the door. She checked the hallway and found it empty, then locked the door, and drew the curtains. 

Jonathan unbuttoned the falls of his breeches, then settled back, freeing his aching prick, coaxing it to full hardness. Arabella raised the hem of her dress to her waist, then knelt on the sopha, straddling him, careful not to tangle him in her petticoats. He slid his hands up her stockinged legs to her warm, bare thighs, and fondled the sweetly rounded cheeks of her bottom, the faintly metallic scent of her arousal warming him. She raised herself: Jonathan found the place, pushed upwards through a soft graze of hair, and in an instant, he was closely sheathed inside her slick, tight heat, and they were moving together, rocking into one another. 

It did not take them long. He helped her along with his thumb on her bud, and when she spent, he was not far behind. He continued to move inside her for a minute or so afterwards, just for the sheer pleasure of it, but finally, he stopped, and held her close, nosing into her shoulder, panting. Arabella clung to him as they recovered, her arms around him, holding him close, mouthing the sensitive skin beneath his ear. 

She murmured something tender, kissed his cheek, then his lips, and then sat up on his lap. As she moved, he slipped out of her, and she gave a pleased little shudder. “You are in an unusual mood,” she murmured. “Do you still plan to go to Fleet Street this afternoon?”

“Yes, and to the Bedford this evening,” he replied, one hand at her waist, supporting her, the other stroking the hair at her nape. “But I have decided: the next time Norrell leaves me alone in his library, I will research the various methods of identifying magicians. Maybe a spell of revelation would work. There is Belasis’ Scopus, of course, but I do not think that would be useful unless someone was actually engaged in performing magic. I want to know how to find the people who do not know they are magicians.”

“Be careful, my love. I cannot think of an area of study – apart from the Raven King – that would cause Mister Norrell more annoyance than the discovery of an army of magicians.”

“Perhaps. But it makes me wonder how many more there are around us, either concealing their talents as Childermass does, or ignorant of them, as I was.”

“Do you think there are so many?”

“I would like to think every man, woman and child in England has the capacity to work magic, to some degree,” he said. “But I rather fear it might be a talent only a few possess, like being able to roll one’s tongue.”

Arabella smiled, and put out her rolled tongue at him, which, of course, led to more kissing. As he tumbled her backwards on the sopha, Jonathan was surprised to find that he had recovered sufficiently to make a second attempt upon her; within minutes, all thoughts of England’s hidden magicians were driven from his mind by the taste of her quim, and the teasing grip of her slender fingers in his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> TV!canon-wise, this might fit into Episode 2, after Strange and Norrell return to London from Portsmouth, but before Norrell agrees to let Strange to be sent to the Peninsular.
> 
> Many thanks to the wonderful onstraysod, who encouraged me to upload this, my first ever fic, and to the folks at the JS&MN kink meme, the nicest bunch of people you could ever swap ideas with.


End file.
